


Code Switch

by anatomical_heart



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992), TARANTINO Quentin - Works
Genre: (What is it With QT's Characters and Diners?), Allusions to the HIV/AIDS Crisis in America, Anxiety, Canon-Typical References to Murder, Closeted Characters, Insomnia, Intense Conversations While in Public, Life-Changing Moments in Public, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Not-Great Coping Mechanisms, Not-Great Decision-Making, Pre-film, Pseudo-Backstory, References to Game Shows Nobody Likes, References to Prostitution, References to Shakespeare, This Fic is Mostly Set in a Diner, Undercover Identities, canon-typical references to violence, pseudo-missing scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-28 20:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8462719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: Freddy couldn’t sleep. Was going on 50 hours of no-sleep. His mouth and eyes were dry as fuck. He was restless. Jumpy. Felt just about ready to crawl out of his skin. His body ached, housing a desperate longing, and he was at an utter loss in knowing how he could possibly get his hands around what he wanted.





	

Freddy couldn’t sleep. Was going on 50 hours of no-sleep. His mouth and eyes were dry as fuck. He was restless. Jumpy. Felt just about ready to crawl out of his skin. His body ached, housing a desperate _longing,_ and he was at an utter loss in knowing how he could possibly get his hands around what he wanted. He kept tonguing the burn on the roof of his mouth from the pizza he’d ordered what felt like days ago, but finished just hours before; only the cold corner pieces remained in the box on the kitchenette counter.

Glossy photographs, blueprints, empty cigarette packs, gum wrappers, and bottles of Clear Eyes were littered in a halo on the floor around Freddy’s head as he sat upside-down on Orange’s couch, legs hooked over its back. Police records for Lawrence Dimick, Joe Cabot, “Nice Guy” Eddie Cabot, and company sat neglected on Orange’s card table-turned-kitchen table. An old Panasonic portable radio Holdaway loaned him warbled on a milk crate next to the radiator. Freddy used to be pretty indifferent to music: He liked the quiet and the flipping of comic book pages. But now, there was rarely a moment that wasn’t stained with some kind of song. Whether that be something Blonde found on the first static-free station he could find, or Pink’s bullshit philosophies ranging from armed robbery to hookers to compulsory voting, or Larry’s voice in his ear... Freddy needed the noise. Craved it: Music, in whatever form, put up road blocks to slow down his racing thoughts.

The door buzzer cut through the room like a knife to the gut. It made him jump and lose his balance; he fell to the floor in a sweaty heap. 

Despite the startle, Freddy got his feet underneath him quick and did not hesitate in grabbing his gun. He cocked it without a second thought, heart pounding. Licking his lips, he pressed the talk button to the intercom, trying to sound flippant as he called, “Yeah, what?” 

Never mind it was almost two in the morning.

“It’s me,” came a familiar voice through the speaker.

Freddy’s eyes fell closed as he swallowed down the relief that pooled on his tongue; his answer was to let Larry in the building. 

Reaching behind himself, Freddy tucked the 9mm into the waistband of his jeans, nestling it against his spine. He ran his fingers through his hair and took in a deep breath before opening the door. He cracked it a sliver - enough for him to show his face as he leaned against the doorframe, successfully hiding the contents of Orange’s crappy apartment with his body. 

Larry approached slowly but with purpose, face shadowy and unreadable in the yellow incandescent light of the hallway. 

“Hey,” Freddy breathed, trying for cool and aloof, rather than grateful and fighting eagerness at Larry’s presence.

Larry didn’t acknowledge the greeting, just lifted his brows in a silent question, not-quite accusatory. 

Freddy answered by averting his eyes, staring down at the scuzzy carpeting in the hall. “I, uh... I can’t sleep.”

Larry nodded once. “Thought so.”

Freddy met Larry’s eyes, briefly, and gave a small, lopsided smile. Guilty. 

“You hungry?” 

That was all Freddy needed to hear.

Larry drove them to this little truck stop on the edge of the desert proper. Cacti and open roads and shit. Freddy stuck his head out the open window and took as much air into his lungs as he could. It felt clean - cool. It felt like the first breath of fresh air he’d taken in three months. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been away from the city, out in anything like nature. Years, definitely. It settled him a bit, like he could almost believe it was all okay... like _he_ was okay. When really? He was pretty fucking far from okay. But this was good. Nice. The wind in his hair in the middle of nowhere and feeling halfway human again with Larry was nice. 

The place they pulled into was a real 24-hour truck stop. Complete with gas station, convenience store... shit, it even had a motel out back of the restaurant for guys who had a little more scratch in their pockets, or for the occasional tourist family sidetracked by a flat-tire that got towed in. Semis with plates from all over the country crowded the parking lot, but it was closing in on 3:00 AM, and things seemed pretty quiet. Freddy wondered how Larry knew about the place. Pictured him setting up some kind of business deal outside past the dumpsters where the desert started to creep in. 

Freddy’s eyes burned as he and Larry were led toward a booth near the back wall. When he sat down, he noticed everything had that too-sharp edge to it that tasted like insomnia. The inside of his face hurt, and he could feel every inch of how much he was struggling to focus. His palms felt clammy and he tried to keep his nerves in check. He needed to stick to the script. He needed to not let on. He needed to keep it together. He needed to concentrate on something - anything. So he zeroed in on each of the physical objects in his immediate proximity.

Butter knife. Fork. Spoon. Napkin. Nap _kins,_ actually - there were two of them, beneath the silverware. 

To his right, gathered against the wall, ketchup. Tabasco. A couple of laminated menus. Blue ceramic ashtray. Salt. Pepper. Jelly cups: Concord grape, strawberry, blackberry, mixed berry. Creamer in a silver coffee service container. Sugar in a glass pourer instead of individual packets; he liked that.

In front of him, a melting glass of ice water. An empty porcelain mug turned upside-down.

Without even thinking, Freddy reached out and righted the mug, suddenly needing coffee more than sleep or sanity. He looked for something else on the table to catalogue as he dragged the mug toward himself, but was interrupted by a soft voice floating somewhere above his left shoulder: “Coffee, hon?”

He was pretty sure she’d said her name was Charlene when she greeted them, sat them. She sounded kind. A little tired, maybe, but sweet. He looked up at her. (Well, not _at_ her - he didn’t think he could look _at_ her. He didn’t think he could look at Larry, either, but he could feel Larry's eyes on him from across the table, and Larry was not an easy dodge.) Freddy tried to smile at her question, but was pretty sure it ended up something just shy of a wince. He kept one hand curled around the mug, slid it toward the edge of the table, and said, “Please.”

Larry waited until the two of them were alone again to say, “You look like shit.” No preamble, just flat-out, _You look like shit._

Freddy laughed at that. Something dry, acerbic, self-conscious. He raised his coffee in a mock-toast, “Thanks.” 

When he lifted his gaze to Larry’s face, Larry wasn’t laughing, wasn’t smiling. He had lines cut into his forehead, concern written all over him; it made Freddy nervous. So he took a gulp of coffee without thinking and bit down on the fact it was _fucking scalding, shit_. He set his mug down with a clack on the table and, noting Larry’s prolonged stare, cleared his throat and murmured, “I’m fine.”

Larry wasn’t convinced.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”

Larry said nothing, just stuck a toothpick between his lips.

 _"Fine,"_ Freddy stressed, making eye contact and everything. He heard the edge in his vowels, the desperate stretching of that single word into _Please believe me so we can talk about something else._ There was a tense moment of silence afterward, and Freddy felt unsure whether he was putting on the performance for himself or for Larry. Larry looked unmoved, so Freddy decided it didn’t really matter since it wasn’t working, either way.

Larry sniffed and took up a menu that was wedged between the wall and the ketchup bottle. “Methinks thou doth protest too much.” 

It was so quiet, Freddy almost missed it. That unexpected, strange little comment tugged at something near his solar plexus. The roll of his eyes was involuntary - a knee-jerk response to cover the heat rising to his face. “Fucking Shakespeare over here,” Freddy muttered, running a hand through his hair and sneaking a quick look at the door behind Larry’s shoulder, remembering his training as a beat cop. _When entering a public place, immediately locate your nearest exit - all possible exits._

Larry arched an impressive brow. “Have you ever actually read Shakespeare? Seen it?”

“What is this, _The $64,000 Question?_ ” Freddy wondered, distracting himself by reaching for his cigarettes, because what the fuck else was he going to do? Because he needed to be doing something with his hands. He looked over his own shoulder, then. Where was their goddamn waitress? 

“Other than lifting weights and learning how to fix up cars, it was the only thing that got me through high school.” 

That got Freddy’s attention. He turned back to Larry, the corners of his mouth turned down in skepticism; Freddy wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “Shakespeare,” Freddy asked, though the Bard’s name sounded more like a declaration of _Bullshit_ than a question.

“Shakespeare,” Larry confirmed with a solitary nod. “Sex, violence, love, death, madness...” he gave a one-shoulder shrug and glanced back down at the menu, “What more can a sixteen year-old ask for?”

Freddy let out an amused, intrigued breath, shaking his head and pulling out his lighter. Well, well. Lawrence Dimick - convicted felon, con artist, former guest of the Wisconsin Department of Corrections - knew Shakespeare. And not only knew Shakespeare, but _liked_ Shakespeare. Who’d’ve thought?

Larry caught the look on Freddy’s face. “What?”

Freddy lit his cigarette, leaned his head on one hand, and grinned, easing into something like himself after how many weeks. He could feel his shoulders starting to slip down from around his ears for the first time in days, and if he really tried, he could almost pretend he and Larry were having a normal conversation. Or that they were normal people. Almost. Maybe. After a long drag, Freddy drawled, “M’just trying to picture you looking under the hood of a car and running lines for ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Macbeth’ or some shit.” 

Larry lifted his eyes over the edge of his menu to look at Freddy. Full-on eye contact, goddammit, and this small, ironic kind of smile Freddy didn’t know how to interpret came over Larry’s face. Freddy had never seen that look or that smile before, never had something like it aimed at himself, and he had no idea what to do with it once he had it. All he knew was that it stole the breath from his lungs and robbed him of any kind of smart-ass remark he might’ve made to Larry’s soft, sincere reply: “Never said I could act, kid.”

He blinked, surprised to find himself honest-to-God blushing - the kind that went all the way to the soles of his feet and hooked around his belly, twisting his insides. Moments like this didn’t belong in his life, undercover or not, and he had to lean back from the table to get his bearings, suddenly light-headed. The whole room felt like it had shifted on a dime; everything had an odd tinge to it, like it was cut from the slippery film of the unreal. Larry, himself, looked different: There was an openness about his face, his gaze… it felt like maybe Freddy was seeing him for the first time.

“You boys ready to order?” And it was Charlene, right on fucking cue. 

An oh-so-eloquent, “Uhhh...” tumbled out of Freddy’s mouth in response; he hadn’t even opened a menu. 

Larry, on the other hand, was all nonchalance. “I’ll take the Trucker’s Special - eggs over medium, wheat toast, orange juice. And he’ll have the short stack with scrambled eggs, bacon, and a side of hashbrowns.” 

Caught off-guard, Freddy’s brows lifted to his hairline, a rash of heat licking along the back of his neck as his breakfast order was rattled off by rote. 

Charlene paused, pen suspended in midair over her guest check pad; she waited on Freddy for confirmation, mouth pulling into a tight, impatient slant.

Freddy glanced quickly up, then back, and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Be up in a few minutes.” And just like that, she was gone again.

Larry said nothing as he leaned back and slid an arm along the edge of the booth seat. An intensity flashed behind his eyes that burned, scorching Freddy down to the marrow; the air between them hummed electric. 

Freddy reached for his water glass. “You my fuckin’ biographer now?” The water tasted metallic and twanged against his teeth, but it was cool and welcome and he drank most of it in one go.

“No,” Larry said, though Freddy didn’t quite believe him. “You’re just green.”

A forced smirk curved the edges of Freddy’s mouth as he tucked the still-smoldering cigarette between his lips and took a lazy drag; he hoped it looked more convincing than it felt. “I thought I was Orange,” he countered.

Larry cocked his head to the side and leveled a _look_ at him. “Cute.”

A breathy, smoky laugh curled around Freddy’s head as he fought back the tension creeping into his shoulders, unsure where all this was headed; he didn’t know what else to do but crack wise. 

“You know what I fuckin’ mean,” Larry muttered, plucking the toothpick out of his mouth. 

Freddy let out a sigh and looked at Larry, feeling every minute of the 50 hours he’d gone without sleep pressing down into his bones. "Actually, I have no idea what you're talking about."

“You’re predictable,” Larry explained, “Creature of habit.”

Freddy wasn’t sure he liked Larry’s tone - a droll, holier-than-thou, better-than-you kind of casual leveled plainly at him from across the table. He watched irritation start to color Larry’s expression as he shrugged, “So?”

“So you’re obvious.”

Freddy took that personally. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey,” he cut in, cigarette bobbing precariously between his lips. “Me being a boring-ass fuck by ordering the same fucking thing for breakfast does _not_ make me fucking _obvious_.” He glared at Larry, even as dread began to gnaw at him; his blustering words sounded young and flimsy even to his own ears. _I’m not fuckin’ obvious, I’m not fuckin’ obvious, I’m not fuckin’ obvious, I’m super fuckin’ cool - I got this._ It was a poorly-constructed mantra for a poorly-constructed persona that was starting to crack. 

Larry pointed at Freddy, eyes narrowing. “Don’t do that. You don’t want to play dumb with me when I know how fuckin’ smart you are.” The words were sour, serious, and fed-up.

Freddy’s toes curled. _Shit._ He wasn’t sure how they’d gone from Shakespeare to _Don’t jerk me around,_ in about 0.2 seconds, but there they fucking were. Something had obviously gotten under Larry’s skin days ago and he’d just been waiting for the right moment to spring it on him. 

Trying to regain his footing and some semblance of control over the conversation, Freddy grasped for something to say. Mouth moving faster than his brain in the beginnings of an already-weak defense of himself, what came out was, “Look, Larry…”

That was as far as Freddy got. 

As soon as his name hit the air, Larry surged forward: With one hand, he ripped the cigarette out of Freddy’s mouth and threw it to the linoleum floor; with the other, Larry grabbed sharp hold of Freddy’s wrist and pulled him across the table so they were nose-to-nose. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

Freddy stopped breathing; he was listening. 

Larry spoke slowly so there was no room for misinterpretation, his voice running along the edge of a razor. Lethal. Cruel. “Don’t you ever in your _life_ use my fuckin’ name out in the open again, do you understand me?”

Freddy could see how the man who dropped by his apartment at two in the morning out of concern for his well-being could be the same man who wouldn’t hesitate to cut off a bank manager’s finger if they got lippy or held out on the goods.

Larry tightened his grip when Freddy didn’t answer and shook him once, demanding a verbal response. “Got it?”

Swallowing down the urge to spill his guts out onto the table between them, Freddy nodded. “Got it.”

Satisfied, or at least satisfied enough, Larry took Freddy’s word with a grunt. “Good.” For a moment, it looked like Larry might leave things there, but immediately thought the better of it. “You want this job?”

The question was unexpected, but Freddy didn't hesitate. “Yeah. 'Course.”

Larry pulled him impossibly closer. “You wanna live through it?” This last was ground out through his teeth; he was not fucking around. 

Freddy’s stomach bottomed out and the last of the oxygen in his withered lungs trickled out between his lips. Alarm bells rang in his ears. Did Larry know? Did Joe? Was this whole conversation just leading up to Larry taking him out behind the restaurant and putting one between his eyes? 

“Yes.” It was little more than a terrified puff of air. 

“Then you better act like it,” Larry snarled, throwing Freddy back against the booth seat.

Adrift, dazed, and _hard_ of all fucking things… Freddy could only stare at the man across from him, speechless and suddenly bereft.

Larry ran a quick hand through his hair and smoothed it back into place, scanning the diner for eyes on them as he did. 

Freddy nearly jumped out of his skin as an old, grizzled truck driver with a yolk-stained shirt and suspenders just barely holding up his Wranglers came out of nowhere and waltzed by their table. 

_Get it together, Newandyke._

His heart rate was jacked, his palms sweaty; nerves all but shot, he tried to blink away the headache starting up behind his left eye socket. He just had to hold on until Charlene came back with their food. (Where the fuck was their food?)

“I've seen the way you look at me.” 

The hair on the back of Freddy’s neck stood on end. “What?”

Larry nodded. _You heard me._

Freddy's mouth ran dry. 

“I've seen the way you look at me,” Larry said again, "When you think I don’t know.” It wasn't an accusation, just a bald statement of fact. 

The world tilted sharply on its axis, ushering in a very different kind of panic.

A part of Freddy stepped outside himself to watch the scene unfold. Distantly, he wondered if this was at all like being on the other side of the interrogation table with Young. Young didn't need to strong-arm or play God to get a confession out of someone, he simply laid out the evidence and watched them fall to pieces. _How'd it go?_ one of them would inevitably ask. _Like dominos,_ Young would toss over his shoulder like it was nothing. _Piece of cake._

Freddy felt like he was on the brink of losing it in a way keeping cover and insomnia alone couldn’t touch. And he felt like Larry knew exactly how to take him apart.

Leaning in and lowering his voice, Larry got right up in his face. “You’re fuckin’ green. And you're looking to catch a bullet in the head the way you’re carrying on.”

Freddy gaped at him. Somehow croaked out, “Carrying on...?”

“Yeah. Carrying on like this is nothing. Some part-time job at the corner store. Who gives a fuck what you get up to off the clock as long as you punch your card on time, right?" He paused a moment, weighing his next move. 

Freddy wasn't ready for it. 

"I know what you get up to in West Hollywood past midnight.” 

Freddy's face went slack, and his mind went blank, and his feet were under him in no-time flat. Before he knew what he was doing, he stood up and pulled out his wallet from his back pocket, thumbing it open and throwing down the wad of cash he saw tucked inside, wholly uninterested in counting it or knowing how much was there. He just needed to get _out,_ get _away_ from Larry - from his life flashing before his eyes.

“Y’know what? I’m done, I’m not going to sit here and listen to this shit.”

He couldn’t’ve told you what he said to Larry even if you paid him; he couldn't hear his voice over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He’d just opened his mouth and let whatever knee-jerk, ready-made, tough-sounding garbage fall out so he could make his escape. He wasn't even sure how he got outside, but once Freddy sucked in a breath of cool desert air and looked up at the stars, he felt dizzy and weak.

 _Keep it together, Newandyke._

Tears stung his eyes. He bent in half at the waist, hands braced on his knees, and tried to stop himself from hyperventilating; he couldn't get the oxygen into his lungs fast enough. He felt wild, desperate, caged. He needed to _leave_ , he needed to _run_ and worry about contacting someone - anyone; Holdaway - later. But anxiety threatened to choke the life out of him, rooting him to the spot. 

There was no contingency plan for someone finding him out. He’d been so careful, 'til this job. Abstinent almost two years, since he buried the last of his friends. In reality, he’d been living a lie long before he ever met Holdaway or Joe Cabot or Lawrence Dimick; he’d been living a lie so long, he could almost believe it didn't feel like a lie, some days. And in some ways, it wasn't a lie as much as an omission of truth. A method of being as much of himself as people would accept and keeping the rest tucked neatly out of the way. And it, y'know... it was shitty. But it worked. Mostly. Somehow. Keeping himself busy made it work even better. Taking double shifts, weekend shifts. Developing witty fucking banter with pricks that'd kick his teeth in if they knew about the parts of himself he didn't talk about.

So when he was offered the opportunity to go undercover, he jumped at the chance. Brushed off Holdaway’s warnings about it being unglamorous, dangerous, somehow both more and less than what he saw on TV; he didn’t care. It was something new that could take up residence inside himself for a while. It was something he could hold onto that had nothing to do with the life he was living. He’d take out the Cabots and their whole damn crew. He’d be super fuckin' cool.

He hadn’t anticipated spending so much time in Orange’s crappy apartment staring at the ceiling, alone, with nothing but his thoughts. Loneliness had always just been a feeling for Freddy. But being Orange… loneliness imprinted itself onto him in ways he couldn’t’ve imagined. Started wearing his skin, started talking for him. Started driving him fucking crazy. 

So he’d gone out to the places he’d avoided for the last two years, looking for company when he couldn't stand it any longer. When he felt starved for human contact and numb to just about everything. He went to the bars, went to the back alleys and the bath houses, needing company. And that's what it had been: Company. Intimacy. He purchased moments of intimacy. 

He purchased moments of intimacy with Orange's grocery money. 

And he’d never thought he’d be one of those sorry fucks that visited hustlers on street corners. Never thought he’d pay someone just to talk to him, sit and have a drink with him, lie on a bed next to him, hold him through ’til morning, touch him. Never thought fleeting touches - shit, even _conversation_ \- with someone he could be more himself with than the people he saw everyday would be worth giving up meals for. But _fuck_. 

“Get up.” 

_Larry._

God. Freddy never even stood a chance. He wanted Larry from the first second he saw him; he should’ve known it was going to get him killed.

“Come _on._ Get up,” Larry growled, taking Freddy by the arm and hauling him upright. 

Freddy grit his teeth at Larry’s bruising, unforgiving grip. Unshed tears blurred his vision and he felt his whole body start to shake uncontrollably. _This is it,_ he thought, feeling hollow; the words echoed terribly inside his skull. Something broke inside of him, and he realized that he didn’t want to die. He wasn’t ready. _He wasn't ready._

Larry looked at him, then. And as their eyes met, Freddy watched Larry’s expression crack and melt instantly from stoic determination to concern. Worry. Compassion. “Hey,” he breathed, at once easing his hold on Freddy’s arm and tugging him closer. “Hey.”

The sudden, radical shift in Larry’s demeanor knocked the wind right out of him. Reeling from the whiplash, needing to believe Larry as much as he needed to keep breathing, keep standing, Freddy reached up and wrapped trembling fingers around Larry’s wrist. “Please…” he whispered. He didn't even know what he was asking for.

Larry shook his head, a sympathetic frown pulling at the corners of his mouth, and settled a soothing hand along the back of Freddy’s neck. “Hey. C’mon.” Then, perhaps recognizing Freddy needed more than that, promised, “M’not gonna hurtcha, kid.” 

A ragged breath was torn from between Freddy’s lips as relief rushed through his veins, faster and more potent than any drug ever had or could; it threatened to bring him to his knees. Freddy closed his eyes and heard his body sing out _thank you_ and _amen._ The vice around his ribcage loosened, and the very earth beneath them sighed.

_Jesus fuck._

Larry slid his hand around to cup Freddy's face to steady him. And when Freddy opened his eyes again, Larry gave him this small, tender smile that made something take flight inside his chest. “It’s okay. C’mon, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

_You’re okay._

A lump the size of his fist wedged itself into the back of Freddy's throat at hearing those words; he hadn’t been okay in a long time. But Larry telling him it was okay - that _he_ was okay - shook him to the core: It made Freddy want to believe him.

Giving himself permission to fully feel the things that had been eating him up for days, Freddy dragged Larry forward and kissed him, hard. Meaning it. Pouring everything he possibly could into it - longing, gratitude, desire. If this was his only shot to express the tangled, knotted mess inside himself, he’d take it and regret nothing.

Larry froze, but did not pull away. 

And did not pull away. 

And did not pull away. 

Until he did. 

Panting, Larry held Freddy as far away from himself as he could while not letting go. And holy shit, that _look_ was back on his face: At once a warning, and something decidedly _else_. Something that wasn't quite anger and something Freddy swore looked like lust mixed with the bravado Larry wore like a second skin. It was dark and conflicted; it _burned_.

Heart racing, Freddy licked his lips and waited. He was out of turns, out of chances, out of places to hide, and it was so clear to him just how much he didn’t want to hide anymore. And that maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe Larry saw him and it really was okay. 

Maybe.

Freddy waited. Would wait until sunup if he had to, forgoing food and even more sleep.

After a moment, Larry pulled Freddy toward him until the space between them vanished and their hips nudged together.

Heat flared in Freddy’s belly at the contact, winding him up and making him gasp; he was hard and unashamed of that fact. Chasing after more contact, more friction, he rolled his hips slow and deliberate against Larry's.

Larry's eyes slipped closed as he leaned into Freddy, his forehead coming to rest against his temple. Breathed “God _damn,_ ” into the hollow of his throat. Rough. Awed. Like a prayer.

Air stuttered to a halt inside Freddy's chest, and an incredulous sound edged its way past his teeth. _Holy fuck, this is happening._ Pulling back, he looked once more into Larry's eyes to make _absolutely sure_ he understood.

Larry's answer was to bring their bodies together again with one hand at home on the back of Freddy's neck, the other curling around his hip. Claiming. "Motel," he murmured against Freddy's lips, demonstrating his intentions in no uncertain terms.

Freddy tipped his head back and laughed, breathless. Exhausted. Blown away. And fucking _giddy._ "Jesus." Everything was happening too fast, not fast enough. Swallowing down any lingering fear or doubt, he met Larry's gaze again and nodded, threading his fingers through Larry's hair; an irrepressible grin threatened to crack his face in half. “Yeah. Okay."

"Okay," Larry echoed, nipping at Freddy's bottom lip. "Wait here."

 _Fuck._ "Yeah."

Freddy felt Larry's gaze scorch down the length of his body before turning to _go get them a room, Mother of God._ A tiny, ebullient noise escaped him as he looked out into the starlit field of creosote and yucca beyond. His nerves were on fucking _fire_. His hands itched to finally feel Larry underneath them. His stomach tied itself into four kinds of knots, and his skin vibrated in excitement and anticipation. Christ, he was a fucking wreck. It had been too long since his body held so much sensation and emotion at one time; it was _incredible._ Excruciating. Bliss. It was none of and all of those things all at once.

How many nights had he fantasized about something like this? How many times had he pictured Larry's face while he paid someone else to touch him? How long had _Larry_ wanted this? Wanted _him?_ He ran a trembling hand over his face, and drew in a deep breath. 

It had probably been a while for Larry, Freddy reasoned. He was from the old school, kept a strict code. Never while on a job, first of all. Not the way he'd started in on Freddy earlier. _You're looking to catch a bullet in the head the way you’re carrying on._ It was a warning, from someone who had been there himself, once. (What had he seen? What had he done?) Never with someone he worked with - what a terrible fucking idea. (What did that say about Freddy?) And never in the same city as someone who knew him - his real name, his reputation - and had the power to destroy it all.

What did that look like? Feel like, to Larry? Was that weight heavier than the weight he, himself, carried? Freddy wanted to know. All of it. All of _him._ Wondered how many mirrors he might find, reflecting parts of his own experience back at him.

Larry emerged from the motel's office a minute later, motioning for Freddy to follow; Freddy didn't hesitate.

When the door shut and locked behind them, Larry wasted no time in hooking his fingers through Freddy's belt loops and yanking him forward so their bodies touched everywhere from the knees up. A small moan rose up in Freddy's throat as Larry kissed him hungrily, like every second they'd spent in each other's company led them to that very moment. Inevitable. 

Irrevocable.

They lay languid and sated beneath the bed sheet, afterward, sweat cooling on their skin as the stars disappeared in anticipation of the sunrise. Freddy drifted in and out of that hazy place preceding sleep, half on top of Larry, head pillowed on his shoulder; Larry reclined against the headboard, a gentle hand tangled in Freddy's hair. Content.

"First time I met you, I knew," Larry mused quietly.

The words pulled Freddy from the precipice of sleep and back into the present. He could hear the smile in Larry's voice, warming him from the inside; the corner of his mouth quirked instinctively upward. "Yeah? How?"

A slight shrug. "Just a feeling, y'know?"

Oh, Freddy knew. He'd honed that feeling for years until it was as automatic as breath; it was part of him. Whether he was walking down the street, ordering a drink at a bar, wandering through the grocery store... it was always there, that feeling. That awareness. He'd meet a man's gaze, and suddenly he'd _know._ And then they'd _both_ know. And _then._ Well.

Grinning, Freddy leaned in to nip at the skin stretched over Larry's collarbone. Yeah, he knew. But he never would've guessed about Larry. Understood that Larry wanted to keep it that way. Needed to, to survive.

Just like him.

Larry reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a cigarette out of his dwindling pack. "At first, I thought you mighta been a cop," he murmured, sticking it between his lips and lighting it with a chuckle. "Then I got it."

He felt his heart stop. Felt dread hook around his stomach and _pull, holy shit._ His heart kickstarted again only after he registered that Larry had dismissed the idea of him being a cop. What could he say to that? What could he possibly say that didn't sound like complete and utter bullshit? Nothing. But he couldn't say _nothing,_ could he? _Naturalistic,_ Holdaway had said. _You gotta be naturalistic as hell._

Swallowing hard and slow, Freddy settled back into himself, focusing on his body, on Larry, and the scene in front of him: He needed to say something. Do something. He needed to be Marlon Fucking Brando.

Freddy let out an indelicate snort, which translated into _Oh, you got it, huh?_ Casually stole Larry's cigarette and took a long drag.

"Thief," Larry accused, a bit of affection creeping in around grumbled consonants.

A wry smirk touched Freddy's face as he returned the cigarette to its place between Larry's lips, "That's the general idea, yeah." Pressed a teasing, open-mouthed kiss along his jugular vein.

_That naturalistic enough for you, Holdaway?_

"Smartass," Larry amended with an amused sigh, stroking Freddy's hair.

Freddy hummed and lay his head back down, listening to Larry breathe. Trying to remember how it was done.

Larry rested his chin atop Freddy's head and smoothed a hand down his spine. His touch was sure and warm - filled with care and everything Freddy could've ever hoped for. "Should probably try'n get some sleep, hm?"

Freddy's eyes fell closed. _Jesus._ He hadn't expected this tenderness - devastating and suddenly _very_ complicated. Or the sudden wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him in realizing he might've just completely jeopardized any chance he had in making it out of his assignment alive. 

But _goddamn._

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is a term that comes from Queer Theory: "Code Switching refers to the act of changing one’s behavior in different environments. It can mean changing languages, changing how one dresses, or any other type of change in behavior from one environment to another." (Quoted from the Agnes Scott College Queer Theory Page.) 
> 
> I wrote a much shorter, much more music-inspired version of this for the "Reservoir Dogs" Kink Meme on Dreamwidth once upon a time. I picked it back up and have been working on this version on and off since February 2015. Your comments give me life, so I humbly ask that you leave feedback in written form if you feel so moved. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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